The training ground they had carved out of the grass was little more than a flattened patch of earth between the river and a ring of young birches. But for Rowan, it might as well have been an arena. His chest heaved, his palms burned from gripping the harpoon, and sweat stung his eyes. Across from him, Lyra stood calm, blade loose in her hand, her breathing steady, her gaze unreadable.
"Again," she said. Her tone was not cruel, but neither did it invite excuse.
Rowan swallowed hard, lifted the harpoon, and lunged. Water sloshed faintly in the pouch at his hip. He tugged at it, calling a slick line of liquid up along the shaft, trying to sharpen the prongs with a sheen of frost. The weapon glittered for a heartbeat as the cold formed, and for a moment his chest tightened with hope. This time. This time he might land a strike.
Lyra moved before he reached her. She did not dodge with panic or haste—she simply wasn't where he aimed. A twist of her heel, a sidestep as smooth as a breeze, and Rowan's thrust cut empty air. His balance staggered. The harpoon tip struck dirt.
"Your eyes are on the weapon," she said. Her blade tapped the side of his arm with a sting that would have been death in a real fight. "Not on me."
Rowan growled under his breath and drew back, heat rising in his face. Behind him, Brenner's laugh rolled out like thunder. "She's dancing rings around you, boy! You fight like a man chasing geese."
"Shut up," Rowan muttered without turning.
Nyx, seated on a log's shadow with her panther stretched beside her, smirked. "He's not wrong. Your stance is sloppy. Even Pan sees it." The great cat flicked its ear as if agreeing.
Rowan clenched the harpoon and reset. "Again," he echoed, his voice low but steady.
Lyra nodded. They circled each other. The others fell quiet, even Ari lowering her bow to watch.
Rowan tried not to think about his failures. He tried to breathe with the river behind him, to let the rhythm of its current pulse into his blood. When Lyra shifted, he mirrored, and this time his strike came faster. Water curled along the harpoon's edge, sharpening, hardening, until it gleamed like glass. He thrust high, then swept low, forcing her to parry rather than simply step aside.
Steel met frozen edge. The clash rang sharp. Lyra's blade jarred, but she absorbed it smoothly, her body flowing with the impact. A flick of her wrist turned Rowan's momentum against him. He stumbled forward, nearly falling into her shoulder.
She did not finish him. Instead, her free hand caught his wrist, and her voice was calm, measured. "You think water is only what you carry. Or what you see flowing there." She nodded toward the river. "But you're missing most of it."
Rowan pulled back, frustration flashing. "What do you mean? I'm using what I've got."
Her grip released. She stepped back and sheathed her blade. "You're breathing it now. Every breath you take carries it. The air itself holds it. You'll never merge if you don't learn to feel that."
The words sank like stones in him. He wanted to snap back, to tell her he was trying, that he had nearly landed a blow. But something in her tone—certainty, not arrogance—stilled him.
Behind, Brenner muttered, "Sounds like riddles to me."
Ari shook her head, arms crossed. "Not riddles. Lessons. He just doesn't hear them yet."
Rowan swallowed. He lifted the harpoon again, slower this time. The pouch at his hip sloshed, but he ignored it, trying instead to sense… something. The air was damp from the river, cool with the morning. He imagined moisture clinging between each breath, tiny droplets invisible to his eyes. Could he touch that? Could he call it?
He thrust again. The harpoon tip shimmered, not with liquid pulled from the pouch, but with a faint film that gathered from nothing. It was weak, thin as a mist, but it glowed pale blue for the briefest instant.
Then it fell away.
Lyra's eyes narrowed, not with disappointment but interest. "Better," she said quietly.
Rowan's chest surged with pride, but it collapsed as Brenner shouted, "Better? Looked like fog rolling off a mule's back."
The laughter broke Rowan's focus. He scowled, turned, ready to throw words back—when a sharp crack snapped across the clearing.
Everyone froze.
It wasn't an arrow or a branch. It was wood splintering, heavy, final. From the camp, beyond the birches, came a groan of timber and the startled shout of one of the freedmen.
"The cart!" Ari's voice was clipped, already moving.
They rushed back toward the wagons they had taken from the raiders. One of the heavy carts—laden with supplies and carrying two wounded—sat crooked in the dirt. Its right wheel had collapsed, the axle split clean through. The wounded groaned as the cart lurched sideways, nearly spilling them into the road.
Brenner swore and hurried forward, shouldering the cart upright with his massive strength. "Hold it steady!" he barked. "Somebody get them out before it tips."
Rowan dropped the harpoon and clambered to the side, helping lift one of the wounded clear. His muscles shook, still tired from sparring, but he gritted his teeth. Lyra moved beside him, calm as always, guiding the other injured man with careful hands.
Ashwyn, old but steady, planted his staff. Roots burst from the ground, curling under the broken wheel to brace it. "It will not last," he warned. "But it will hold long enough."
The camp erupted with motion. Freedmen scrambled to gather scattered supplies, while Ari shouted orders, sending archers to the edges of the clearing in case the noise had drawn attention. Nyx vanished into the shadows without a word, Pan slipping behind her like smoke.
Rowan, chest heaving, helped lay the wounded on a blanket. His mind still spun with Lyra's words. You're breathing it now.
Even in the chaos, he looked up. The air shimmered faintly in the heat of the day. He could almost believe he felt it—water hidden in every breath, waiting.
The cart groaned again, Brenner snarling as he held its weight. Ashwyn's roots strained. Lyra's eyes flicked once toward Rowan. She didn't speak, but he caught the meaning clear as sunlight. Learn. Or we won't last.
And with that, the lesson in the air felt heavier than the broken cart in his hands.